


Conquered

by AnnieforSimonsflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Post War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-26
Updated: 2006-12-26
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieforSimonsflower/pseuds/AnnieforSimonsflower
Summary: Six months after Voldemort’s demise, Harry is still shut away from the world.  Ron takes it up on himself to bring Harry back and finds something out about himself in the process.





	Conquered

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Simons_flower, who passed away in 2009, by her designated archivist.

  
Author's notes: For [](http://dream-wia-dream.livejournal.com/profile)[**dream_wia_dream**](http://dream-wia-dream.livejournal.com/) for the 2006 [](http://community.livejournal.com/bestmates_xmas/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/bestmates_xmas/)**bestmates_xmas** exchange.  As for where the cinema and pub might be, I leave that to your imagination because I spent an hour cross-referencing maps and gave up.  


* * *

** Conquered **

He's sitting in the dark again and there's nothing I can do about it. Every time I knock on the door, he yells for me to go away. Hermione told me to leave him alone until he's ready, but I can't do that.

 

Instead I find myself on a Saturday morning -- when I should be sleeping in -- pounding on his door to get him to open it. Even if he's been spelling his clothes clean, after four weeks he's got to be pretty ripe.

 

Sure enough, when he does open the door, the smell is the first thing that assaults me. Overripe clothes, old food and unwashed body scent waft from his room.

 

"Harry, get the hell out of there so it can be cleaned."

 

"Go the fuck away, Ron."

 

He tries to slam the door on me, but I force my foot in the opening. All I get for my trouble is a foot I could swear is broken, but Hermione will heal that. Shoving against him, the door flies open to smash into the wall, the knob leaving a divot in the plaster.

 

Harry waves a hand ineffectually at the wall. "Now look what you've done."

 

I roll my eyes, pull my wand and incant a spell. "Good as new." I sniff once again. "You need to wash."

 

"I want to be alone."

 

I didn't know the Muggle movies Hermione made me watch would come in handy. "Greta Garbo you aren't, Harry. If you don't shower, I'll turn the hose on you."

 

He glares at me. With damn near anyone else, the Harry Potter Death Glare would work. Not me. I laugh. He huffs, sounding terribly like Hermione, and flops himself onto his bed.

 

I pick up a dirty sock, ball it up, and throw it at his head. He splutters, sitting up and throwing the sock back at me.

 

"What are you trying to do, kill me?" he demands.

 

I grin. "It's your sock. Now get your arse out of here and shower while I burn your clothes."

 

He huffs again, sighs, then reluctantly shuffles from the room. As he passes me in the doorway, he grins, a bit of the old Harry showing through.

 

"If you wanted me naked, you didn't have to threaten me."

 

I cuff the back of his head. He snorts, half a laugh and half something else, and shuffles down the hall. I try not to notice that he's shedding clothing along the way, leaving him only in his boxers at the door to the lav. Sighing heavily, I use my wand to gather the clothing in the hall into a pile next to his door.

 

"You managed to extricate him?" Hermione asks from the top of the stairs. She's holding a bundle of clean clothing. She must have heard the yelling.

 

"Yes, but we'll have to fumigate and burn." She laughs and waves her wand. More clothing from Harry's room joins the pile I gathered by the door. "It's all clothes from the Dursleys anyway." Hermione turns from her task and raises an eyebrow at me. "It's not like it fits him!"

 

She shakes her head, performs a Bubble-Head Charm and enters Harry's room. When she manages to get the curtains and windows open, light pours into the hall. Given the spells and protections at Grimmauld Place, I wonder if she had to Banish both.

 

From the corner of my eye, I spot the bundle Hermione brought up. Though the clothes look new, I don't know if they are or if they're mine resized for Harry. The idea that they're mine and resized causes my gut to twist. Pushing the reaction down, I knock on the lav door.

 

"Harry! Clothes!"

 

I hear a grunt from the other side the door over the shower sounds that I take to mean 'come in.' I open the door and know at once I was hearing things.

 

Harry is standing naked in front of the mirror poking at his ribs, which are too prominent. He looks up when I open the door, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

 

"What day is it?" he asks, sounding confused. I blink, frozen. He quirks an eyebrow up. I blink again. "Well?"

 

I lick my lips self-consciously. "Um, December 22."

 

Harry's eyes widen. "Six months?" I nod. "Why the fuck did you let me wallow for six months?"

 

He's standing there in the buff, water running, I can't gather a coherent thought in my head and he wants to know why I _let_ him wallow?

 

I throw the clothes at him. "Take a shower, Harry," I growl, turning on my heel and slamming the door behind me.

 

The sound of water hitting the tub changes and I know he's in the shower. Wet. Naked.

 

I take two steps to cross the hall and bang my head on the wall. "Fuck."

 

After giving myself a headache, I make my way into Harry's room. Hermione has managed to open it up -- and it seems she did have to Banish the curtains and window -- allowing light and freezing-cold air into the room.

 

"Damn, Hermione!" I curse, blowing on my fingers to warm them. "He's not going to want to walk around in a parka!" Nevermind that Harry in a parka is better for my mental health than Harry in my t-shirt and jeans.

 

Hermione pokes her head out of the closet, rolls her eyes and waves her wand at me before I can protest.

 

"Thanks," I mutter sheepishly. Her warming charms really are the best.

 

"Strip the bed," she orders, her words muffled enough by the closet that I pretend I didn't hear her. That is until she pulls her head from the closet again and glares at me. "Don't pretend to be stupid, Ronald." With a resigned sigh, I turn to the bed.

 

It's not that I mind household chores, really, despite what my mum and Hermione think. This is _Harry's_ bed and in the last year I've developed an unhealthy obsession with him. During the Great Horcrux Hunt, Hermione and I had our fling, but when Ginny was killed in a Death Eater raid on Hogsmeade in late winter, it changed all of us. Suddenly, Hermione and I were there for Harry, not each other, and our relationship fell by the wayside. The _Prophet_ thinks I broke up with her because she started going out with Charlie, but that's not it. It was a mutual break-up. I didn't fight because I want Harry. And he's clueless.

 

Sighing again, I pull the sheets from the bed. They've been on so long without being cleaned that I swear I hear a crackle as one corner lets go. That's disgusting even for me.

 

"We should just burn the room," I mutter.

 

Hermione apparently has moved beyond the closet because she replies, "We are _not_ burning the room, Ronald."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Yeah, why not?" Harry asks.

 

I drop the sheets and turn. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Harry didn't dry off completely. His hair is still wet, dripping onto the t-shirt, making the cotton stick to his chest in random patterns.

 

Hermione props her hands on her hips. "Because you should _clean_! It wouldn't kill you!"

 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, scrawny chest right now, but chest, and leans against the doorframe. "It might. How do you know?"

 

She throws a mangy sock at him.

 

"Oi!" He pulls the sock from his shoulder. "What's with the socks?"

 

"They're plentiful," Hermione retorts tartly. "We've given you a free ride for six months."

 

"Killing Voldemort wasn't enough?"

 

"Not to keep the house clean."

 

I bite my lip to stifle my laughter and turn back to the bed.

 

We spend the rest of the day in comfortable silence cleaning the pig sty of Harry's room. After Hermione returned the window so we didn't freeze to death, that is.

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

"Hey, to celebrate, why don't we go out?" I ask, hoping Hermione's got a date already.

 

Harry looks up from his plate. "Out?"

 

"Yeah, it's only three, we could do some holiday shopping and catch a movie or something."

 

Hermione reaches over to place the back of her hand against my forehead. "You feeling all right?"

 

I narrow my eyes at her and glare. "Yes."

 

She rolls her eyes in response, but backs away to carry her plate to the sink, where the cleaning charms start immediately. "I can't. Charlie and I are going out."

 

_Yes!_ I turn to Harry. He's looking a bit green around the gills, but that could just be the idea of sunshine for the first time in six months.

 

"Outside?"

 

I raise my eyebrows. "Yes, out. And before you ask, we can go to Muggle London. Besides, you've been hidden here so long, the Wizarding world thinks you went mad and are locked up in St. Mungo's."

 

His lips twitch at that. "Lockhart teaching me joined-up writing?"

 

Hermione huffs again. I swear that girl doesn't get enough oxygen to her brain with how often she does that.

 

"Not sure," I reply. "Haven't actually read the _Prophet_ lately."

 

Harry chews uncertainly on the side of his thumb. When he raises his eyes to mine again, I've never wanted to be one of his fingers more. A mental sigh of relief floods my brain when he pulls his thumb away.

 

"Muggle London?" He sounds hopeful. I nod. "Okay." I resist the urge to whoop for joy.

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

By the time we get out the door, dusk has fully set in.

 

Harry shrugs his collar higher. "Do we have to go shopping?"

 

"No. We could just see a movie or go eat."

 

Harry squints up at the dying sunlight. "Both?"

 

He sounds too hopeful for me to turn down. "Sure."

 

We walk to Caledonian Road and find a cinema with a film showing in ten minutes. Not particularly caring what it is, I pay for two tickets, carefully counting out the strange Muggle money.

 

Hermione told me about the cinema, but I didn't believe her. Harry laughs at my joy over the sweets. It's good to hear him laugh. There was a bit there where we didn't think he'd ever laugh again.

 

The film turns out to be a romance. Harry is engrossed -- I doubt the Dursleys took him to the cinema often, if ever -- but it tortures me. Once I've eaten all the sweets but the one chocolate bar Harry wanted, I have nowhere to put my hands. The seat is nearly too narrow for me.

 

After several minutes of awkward shifting, Harry murmurs, "Git," grabs my arm and practically tosses it on the back of his seat.

 

I see none of the film after that. The image of dropping my arm from the seat to Harry's shoulders and drawing him close tortures me. I imagine he'd sigh softly and tuck his head against my shoulder where I could duck my head and bury my nose in his hair.

 

_Fuck, I've got it bad._

 

My daydream is shattered when Harry smacks my forehead with the heel of his hand.

 

"Oi! What the hell did you do that for?" I rub my forehead even though it didn't really hurt. Much.

 

"It's over," Harry says. I flush as I realize he's right. The lights have come up and there's someone with a broom cleaning the theatre.

 

I pout. "You didn't have to smack me." Harry says nothing, but bends to collect our trash. _Fuck, those jeans frame his arse perfectly._

 

We manage to exit the cinema after I force myself to think of Snape and McGonagall shagging to coax my cock down. Then, Harry looks at me over the top of his glasses and raises his eyebrows, silently asking what next.

 

I'm doomed.

 

"Hungry?" he asks, obviously taking my silence for confusion. Despite the sweets I just ate, my stomach growls, answering Harry's question. He smiles.

 

I have to look away so I don't pin him to the cinema wall and devour his mouth with mine.

 

Clearing my throat, I say, "There's a pub a bit this way." I gesture south.

 

"Let's go," Harry says, leading the way.

 

He gets far enough ahead of me that I can see his jean-clad arse playing peek-a-boo from under the edge of his coat as he walks.

 

Doomed.

 

As the pub is only two blocks away, it doesn't take but a few minutes to get there. The cold air has put color into Harry's cheeks, lessening some of the vampirish pallor he had.

 

We each order a light meal after taking seats opposite each other at a small table.

 

Now that he's out of Grimmauld Place -- hell, his room -- he seems to be relaxing a bit. Especially after he orders a pint of whisky to be left on the table.

 

At first, our drinking discussion is tame. He asks about what's going on in the world. I can only tell him about the Wizarding world in vague terms until he suggests returning to Grimmauld Place. When I nod in agreement, the room spins a bit. Glancing at the whisky bottle, I realize we've finished it.

 

I don't know how we make it back without being hit by a car or arrested by a bobby ("Are they all named Bobby?" I asked. Harry laughed. "No! They're called bobbies." I scratched my head. "So they have different names?" Harry just laughed again.) It takes three tries to charm the door open.

 

Harry stumbles over the umbrella stand Tonks normally trips over. With exaggerated care, he holds his index finger over his lips and hisses, "Sssh...we'll wake Hem-Hem-Mione!"

 

Of course, he shouts that last bit, glad to have her name said. As Hermione doesn't appear, I can only guess she's still with Charlie. I twitch at the thought.

 

Harry and I somehow make it into the sitting room, one of the few rooms other than bedrooms that we've cleaned thoroughly. He shrugs his coat off, dropping it on the floor by the sofa. His scarf and gloves follow in a haphazard trail to the sofa.

 

He throws himself onto it, arms spread wide. "I feel good."

 

I grin, laying my coat, gloves and scarf on a chair. I hope we remember to pick them up before Hermione finds them in the morning.

 

Harry waves his wand. " _Accio_ Firewhisky."

 

"You sure that's a good idea?" I ask, taking a seat in the chair across from him.

 

"If I'm going to finally celebrate the death of the Voldemort, I'm doing it right." Just then, three bottles of Ogden's fly into the room. I cast a cushioning charm on the bottles more quickly than I would have thought given how much I've had to drink. None of them break.

 

Harry grins, opens a bottle, tosses me one, and takes a drink.

 

Doomed.

~<>~<>~<>~<>~

"Your first time?" Harry asks, carefully wrapping his lips around the words. We've each finished a half-bottle of Ogden's and are feeling the effects. He has to repeat the question because his lips are distracting.

 

I flush bright red and throw a pillow at him.

 

"Hey!" he shouts, but it's half-hearted.

 

"Not answering. Don't wanna know 'bout my sister." I'm happy to get all the words out without stumbling.

 

He mumbles something in response. "What?" I ask. He mumbles again. I throw another pillow.

 

"Not your sister!" he shouts, throwing the pillow back.

 

I raise my eyebrows. At least I think I do. My face feels a bit numb. "Really?"

 

He nods, sliding to the floor. I slide down, then crawl across the floor to sit next to him.

 

"Then who?" I ask.

 

"Tell me first."

 

My blush returns. "No one."

 

He turns to me so fast, he overcorrects and sends his bottle spilling onto the carpet. "Not Mione?" I shake my head, mortified.

 

Until a wicked, totally Harry, completely distracting grin splits his face. "Me either."

 

"You didn't shag Mione?" I ask, furrowing my brow. Why would he be so happy Hermione hadn't shagged either of us?

 

He leans forward far enough that I can smell his breath and that Harry-smell his room was stale with, but now it's fresh and he's _right there_.

 

"No," he whispers conspiratorially. "No one."

 

I blink. We're _both_ virgins?

 

Before I can process that, Harry leans too far. He pushes us both backwards onto carpet.

 

"Oops," he laughs.

 

My brain stops. Harry is wiggling on top of me like an eager puppy. I wrap my arms around him, knocking over my own bottle of Firewhisky, and clutch him tight so he'll stop moving.

 

"Who're you waiting for?" he asks softly, his breath fluttering against my cheek.

 

I meet his eyes. For a year those damned green eyes have haunted my wet dreams. Despite how drunk we are, he seems very serious.

 

Swallowing hard to gather courage, I whisper back, "You."

 

His grin is once again wicked. "Me, too."

 

Somehow our lips meet without smashing our noses together. It's not a very good kiss, but it's a kiss. I'm kissing Harry. _I'm kissing Harry._

 

Doomed. No, conquered.

 

And I don't mind.


End file.
